Gratification
by DasMervin
Summary: Sweeney Todd with his cold, beautiful mistress.


**Rating: R for sexual content**

**Author's Notes: No, it's not Mrs. Lovett. Once again, I was reluctant to post this here, but I was urged and prodded to do so. Well, here it is. This was another fic that was a result of my request for prompts—Dagor Hamster gave me a prompt that I took in a very wrong, very twisted direction.**

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Up. Down. Up. Down._

That's how it worked when Sweeney Todd shaved those he could not kill. The blade went up, and then came back down, gliding across skin. He didn't like that his razor caressed and kissed other throats besides his own, but he understood—she only did it because she had to keep up appearances.

_In. Out._

Oh, how he loved the way she did that—she'd done it a lot today, slipping into one side of the throat and out the other, blood splattering onto his hands, hot and slippery. He'd done something he'd never done before today—he'd been dizzy and hungry, almost regretting refusing Mrs. Lovett's customary invitation down for lunch…he'd pressed his lips to the dripping blade, tasting the blood there, and the sensation had made him weak in the knees. How he'd always hated the taste of his own blood, so often present on his tongue for fifteen long, harsh years…he never imagined someone else's could be so intoxicating.

He'd wondered what Judge Turpin's blood would taste like once he had the bastard back in his clutches.

He'd tasted blood all day, that strange, coppery flavor staying with him even though he'd only kissed the razor once. He'd drifted through work in a kind of daze, a strange and almost foreign euphoria flooding him every time he watched her slit another man's throat. The day had ended far too quickly—she'd not been sated, not been satisfied. It alarmed him a little, as she'd somehow managed to exhaust him yet still wanted more from him—wanted him to take more of what she offered.

She was staring at him now, still open, resting beside him in bed. He didn't know what time it was, and he didn't know how long he'd been staring at her—he was tired, yes. Very tired—but unable to sleep, and he knew why. She knew why, too—he could tell, just by the way she glittered at him, playing coy and encouraging him. She seemed to whisper to him…she always helped him, so why not help with this?

_Go on, my darling._

"Yes," he whispered back, and he reached forward and took her in his hand, the other sliding under the sheets and to his trousers. "Yes."

His eyes drifted shut for a moment, but he didn't want his eyes closed—he wanted to look at her, see her shine.

_Up. Down. Up. Down._

His razor made him feel alive—she made him feel things he never thought he'd feel again. He never thought he'd feel a glimmer of strange happiness again, that twisted delight he felt every time another worthless lump of flesh slide down the chute to the bakehouse, dead by his hand. She made life worth _living_, because she stole the breath from countless men and in turn gave it to him, gave him their souls and spirits to devour to take the place of his own, which had long been dragged down to hell by the cruel hand of Fate. And now she was letting him know that there could be pleasure in the perverted existence she'd given him, gave him the feeling of desire…and his desire was strong. He wanted—wanted blood, wanted death, wanted _her_.

He liked to think she wanted him back. She was cold sometimes, yes, but it wouldn't take much to make her warm, like he was now—she, gripped securely in his hand, growing warm to his touch, just as she grew warm from blood—yes, blood made her hot. She so loved the gore, reveling in it and letting it drip down her, turning her hair red. He marveled at the colors her hair could turn—it was silver most of the time, but if he held her just right next to the candle or the lantern, her hair turned yellow, like his Lucy's hair had been. And when he sliced her through the air and tore her through flesh, her hair turned a beautiful shade of red—much more beautiful than that shade Mrs. Lovett had. Hers was far too dark, and didn't shine nearly as brightly as

_(Lucy's)_

the razor's did.

He held the razor close to him, his breath steaming the shining blade so close next to his mouth. His eyes were shut, his chest rising and falling rapidly. God…the razor was hot in his hand, and so _smooth_…he opened his eyes halfway, opening his hand, and the woman on the handle smiled at him, covering herself modestly with her hands and hair and teasing him, showing him only what she wanted to show him, allowing him to imagine what beauty she hid. She trembled daintily from his own shaking, unafraid of him but pretending she was just for him, because she knew he would like it that way. He saw his own reflection in the blade, the blade that had been stained red countless times, blood dripping down and onto the handle, spurting onto his hands and sleeves…

He squeezed his eyes shut again, mouth falling open in a silent cry, fingers tightening hard around the razor again.

"God—_God, Lucy!_" he whispered hoarsely, and he came, and it felt almost painful, his body shaking, and he moaned when it was over. He lay there, breathing hard, curled up on his dilapidated mattress in the dark. He finally became aware that his left hand, still tight around the razor, was burning. Forcing his eyes open, he saw red—red on the pillow, dripping slowly from his hand. Slowly uncurling his fingers, he saw that the blade had sliced open his palm from where he'd clutched it tightly.

He stared at the way she'd bitten him, sinking her edge deep into his flesh, tasting him in the only way she could. It didn't hurt much—he'd endured much worse. She'd still been hungry, just as he'd thought…

And she looked so very beautiful in red…

He knew he shouldn't let the blood sit on her overnight—it would be a mess to clean tomorrow. But somehow, this was different—it wasn't somebody else's blood. It wasn't a stranger's blood that was splashed across her face, but his own…

He pulled her closer, his eyes closing, sleep slowly beginning to steal over him. He felt his own blood smear across his face as he gently nuzzled her, she so warm in his hand, so responsive…

He wanted to say he loved her. He felt the words in his throat, words he meant, for she truly understood him, truly loved him—surely she must, for look at all she did for him. She ripped through flesh just for _him_, doing it to please him, to make him happy, she shone bright every morning, never dull, and her smile never left her face…she didn't try to be Lucy, she _was_ Lucy…

But he never said it. He fell fast asleep before he could say a word.

When he woke up in the morning, he saw the dried blood, and he didn't mind. The blade looked best when stained with rubies, anyway.

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**For those wondering, the prompt given was "Sweeney/Razor."**


End file.
